


forever is a long time, to carry love-worn ghosts

by Buttercup_ghost



Series: we are stranger than earth, with her seasons mislead [2]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Experimental Style, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Italics, Lowercase, Mental Health Issues, Metaphors, References to Depression, Stream of Consciousness, Symbolism, happy new decade btw, i debated not putting this in the series but went ahead and did so in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:33:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: “it’s heavy.”“it’s weighing you down. her memory is a siren, and your thoughts the ocean. her body is heavy, because she is dead and gone and you are the only thing left, to carry her corspe.”“it’s hard to bare.”“...are you sure you want to carry it?”“always.always.”
Relationships: Kirigiri Kyoko & Naegi Makoto, Kirigiri Kyoko/Naegi Makoto, Maizono Sayaka & Naegi Makoto, Maizono Sayaka/Naegi Makoto
Series: we are stranger than earth, with her seasons mislead [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1275065
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	forever is a long time, to carry love-worn ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> thinking about them...

_his head, in her lap._

_his head is in her lap, as she hums, braiding flowers into a crown to match her own. it’s a beautiful sound, but that’s to be expected. her smile is the same as always, but it’s softer, now; the glow isn’t too bright to look at, a moon hung in the sky, instead of a star so bright and far he could never reach._

_her fingers play with his hair, absentmindedly. they tangle; she pulls, as gentle as she can when her thorns dig, caught within. he goes with it, like a sea, pulled towards her imitation shine, reflecting back his wants like a mirror._

_it’s not see through. he cannot see past it, and into her resonating heart. a clump of rock; maybe it chokes her, too._

_or maybe not._

_love is not all knowing. even as her fingers intertwine flowers, the roots are still in the ground, cut off from connection. they don’t know a thing, not really, but those flowers are still so tangled up, a crown knitted from things unsaid._

_that smile is beautiful, even if it is not real._

_he loves that look she gives, tender, and in love. he loves those songs she hums, soft and ill defined. he loves those unknown thoughts, elusive, but apart of her, and any part of her is something to treasure. he loves the things that catch and pull, thimble bitten nails, locks on heads, bones hiding hearts._

_makoto loves sayaka, and he knows, even if he forgets everything else, he would still find his way back to her, a wave. magnetic; he will always swish and sway, falling so maddeningly dizzy, into her gravity. an ocean of thoughts; her smile tugs and tugs, and that’s why he knows, he’ll always fall in love with her again._

_yes; the memories fade and divide, mind parting, bellows breaking, and even then, after he wakes back up with his head on a desk, pounding from the crashing storm of a pleasant dream forgotten, he is pushed back, pulled forward._

_she still dazzles, that moon, and his sea leans forward once more. and even though the storm still crashes and drowns, it calms in the rhythm of her pushpull. her gravity; her space. it orbits him, and he is content, happy, even though the fear, the anger, the muted, drowned out desperation, thunders, in the background._

_then —_

_(he reaches out for her moon, to see if he could grasp it, comfort it’s cratters as it waxes and wanes, to cradle and protect it within his sea, only to find — )_

_it’s gone._

_it’s gone. it’s gone. it’s gone._

_the moon is gone, and he is left a sea with no direction, seeking out her pushpull that’s no longer there._

_(his head, in her lap._

_he feels something warm seap through his hair, feels something bitter drip down onto his face. she is smiling, the moon as always, when he looks up. but then she is not. because she is a girl, not a moon, and maybe, sometimes, the sea in her rib cage drowns her, too. it drips from her eyelids, closed shut and tight. there’s blood in his hair, blood on her fingers that tangle and tremble, and all of it comes from the wound in her abdomen. a knife, as sharp as her mind. her own, and it rusts with the sting of betrayal, of sorrow, of a lonely fear driven plea. hers is unheard, and only a ghost catches his._

_“please don’t leave me!” he whispers it, too afraid to yell, lest it crack and crumble like her moondust form; his ocean leaks, all salty eyes, and breezes._

_but she is not there to answer him.)_

* * *

_“it’s heavy.” the boat stops at those words, considering. the silence is heavy. or maybe it’s light, like water, weighing them down as they fall no matter how fluid it appears. he’s drowning, but his face is lit with a smile. the water in his eyes will never stop gleaming, reflecting light that’s not there. the taste of water is overpowering, but it’s not new. the tang of rust, of dead fish and killed trust, is. but the blood is all she’s left him, so he doesn’t mind, and pays it no head. the poisoned fish float, choking._

_“you’re watered down,” the boat says, a light purple gentled, “your clothes are soaking, and you are sinking.”_

_“i can’t be,” the ocean protests, “i am an ocean. what ocean drowns?”_

_the boat blinks. when he looks closely, the fuzzy image focuses on a girl. maybe the boat is only carrying her, in truth._

_“your thoughts and feelings are the ocean,” she corrects, “you are still a person, makoto. and people_ drown _.”_

_with those ominous words she stares down at him, that girl, upon the boat. he thinks she may be similar to him, after all. but he can’t really tell with the water in his ears, her words faint and distant. he can’t be sure she isn’t a moon, too, with a knife that gleams with intent until it falters. it’s okay if she is. but loving the moon is so painful, filling him up with rocks and dust, words turned to dirt in his mouth. he’s not sure he could take it, could take the mush it makes his ocean as it crumbles away._

_(but a moon will always be blameless, still. the ocean is not. the ocean has swallowed so many whole, dead and gone like the fishes still floating with such lifeless eyes, polluting his chest. yet, is it really blameless, when the moon pushpulls the waves, crashing them around things that drown? he thinks maybe we are all the same in the end, ocean filled chests and smiles that wane and wax, lying about the light they reflect. he knows so many have drowned in the dance, between. succumbing._

_maybe that is what that supernova meant, when she spoke of despair with such carelessness, unafraid of fuel to burn through her destruction, only interested in the spectacle it creates._

_maybe that supernova thought such a thing was pretty, instead of pitiable.)_

_“i’m not drowning,” he repeats, instead saying the words that die as soon as he thinks them. “i am an ocean,” he gulps the water, swallowing it down, “the ocean is heavy.”_

_“no,” the girl says, sad as she shakes her head, “you’re weighed down by the burden you carry.”_

_“she is not a burden!” it comes quick and sharp, ice caps, “she is_ never _a burden.”_

_the girl is quiet, as her boat drifts, skims his thoughts so effortlessly it scares him. his ocean is deep and vast, yet she sees so clearly it may have well been a simple cup, his head made of glass, see through and transparent. “i’m sorry,” she says, “you know that’s not what i mean.”_

_he can smell garbage, polluting. he can hear air, whooshing. he can feel himself, falling._

_the ghost of a press crushes him, the sound, repeating. bang, it goes, like a gun, bang, bang, bang. his thoughts turn to lead, bullets. it weighs him down further, as the water steals his air; the sound rings out, but it is not enough._

_he is still falling._

_the girl looks so sad, though, distressed and worried, fear and concern mingling into one. like flowers the moons bloodied fingers tangled._

_“it is heavy,” he repeats. the thoughts are heavy. “it is hard.”_

_“it was always going to be hard. wading through water with a corspe on your back, will always be hard.”_

_he stares at her. “i’m drowning, arent i?”_

_the moons memory haunts him. the way it crumpled, the pieces that knocked him under, the pushpull a mockery of reality. the distortion, a siren, singing in her voice, reverbing a tone divorced from the truth._

_her eyes are sympathetic. the boat rocks. “are you sure you want to carry a dead girl?”_

_something sparks within the water, an impossible light, “_ always _.”_

_the girl smiles like she expected that answer. or maybe she didn’t. maybe she’s just proud, of him. “then i will help bear it for you,” she says, reaching down into murky depths, “i will help carry all you grab, and pull you up from the waters that try to drown you.”_

_her fingers don’t tangle in his hair. they do not yank him up through locks worn and rusted. instead, like roots, they tangle themselves naturally, her fingers locking with his. she guides him up, steading him, as he gasps for breath on the raft she has crafted._

_the boat floats, even under the weight he could not carry._

_he sees light, hiding as if shy, glowing behind her purple eyes._

_(he falls. the garbage scatters around him. she comes for him, offers her hand, and helps him stand._

_he falls, and she catches him.)_

_sayaka’s body is as cold and lifeless as ever, but kyouko’s hand is warm, in his, rough like the wood his knees dig into. they are not moon craters, no matter the scars that divot and dip; but flesh, real and imperfect. her smile is not a mirror, and her eyes don’t reflect. she does not compromise, cutting off pieces of herself to fit a mold that cannot hold her. she is simply what she is, unwavering, steady even as the waves try to pull them back under._

_up on this boat she has crafted, water does not fill his lungs._

_up on this boat she has crafted, their hands the only flower crown they need, he can breath._

_it is enough._

**Author's Note:**

> *gestures vaguely* metaphors
> 
> this actually started bc my friend was taking about mcr and their lyrics, and that made me remember ‘the world is ugly,’ and the line ‘for every failing sun, there’s a morning after’ made me think of naezono... and because of that, i made a naezono playlist, which i then listened to, and decided, ‘hey, you know what i should do? write about them.’
> 
> and then this happened. 
> 
> (it’s unedited, btw, so if there’s any typos or if it doesn’t make sense at times, i apologize. i’ll probably edit it later, when i have more mental energy, if i need to.)
> 
> you can listen to the playlist here: https://playmoss.com/en/junkfuck/playlist/for-every-failing-sun-there-s-a-morning-after


End file.
